


Rhythm With No Metronome

by sinuous_curve



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When Sarah asks her if she wants to go for a pint after work, John almost misses that she's being asked on a </i>date<i>, because it's really been just that long. Not that it was any kind of conscious dedication to celibacy; she was overseas first and fraternizing seemed like a piss poor idea. Then she was wounded and back home and trying to get through the days with her head relatively in one piece. Dating and all that fell reasonably, she thinks, to the wayside.</i></p><p>Featuring female!John and female!Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm With No Metronome

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I don't even know. This is essentially what happens when I talk to lyo and tell her I'm going to write something that's the epitome of self-indulgence. In all likelihood, there will be more of this. :P Thanks to lyo and northern for catching all my silly typos and making this at least a much more readable bit of self-indulgence.

When Sarah asks her if she wants to go for a pint after work, John almost misses that she's being asked on a _date_ , because it's really been just that long. Not that it was any kind of conscious dedication to celibacy; she was overseas first and fraternizing seemed like a piss poor idea. Then she was wounded and back home and trying to get through the days with her head relatively in one piece. Dating and all that fell reasonably, she thinks, to the wayside.

And whether it's because Sherlock is actually as intuitive as she thinks she is or time giving John the space she needed to sort herself out, she has pretty well gotten sorted. At least, quite a bit more sorted than she ever expected to be lying in a field hospital with her shoulder turned to hamburger meat and bone fragments.

They point being, she's got a flat (and a brilliant, mad, sociopathic flatmate) and a job at the surgery, and now Sarah’s asking her around a shy smile if she'd fancy popping into the local pub when their shifts finish.

"I. Um." John grins weakly, feeling like the biggest cockup in the whole world. "Yes, I mean. Definitely. I didn't know you—" She makes a gesture with one hand, a bit of a tilting twisting thing that's meant to succinctly convey the impression of lesbian tendencies.

Sarah blushes bright red and runs a hand through her hair. "Surprise, surprise," she says, with a little wiggle. "I mean. If you're not, that's. I don't mean to make it awkward."

"No, no!" John shouts a bit louder than she means to, drawing the gazes of the few patients scattered in the waiting room, casting both of them steadily more baleful glances at their audacity to chat instead of see patients. "I am."

She grins weakly. Biggest cockup in the world.

It's not that John would ever claim she went into war as a straight bird and was somehow converted. It's more that she grew up with the tears and wailing and rending of breasts that came from Harry marching into the kitchen one morning and declaring herself a dyke at the tender age of fifteen. John more or less suspected their poor mother couldn't have handled her other daughter admitting similarly sapphic leanings.

What happened in the war was that she almost died and walked out of that mess with shrapnel in her shoulders, a limp, and a sudden determination to fuck all when it came to pretending. It sounds a bit more noble than it really was, but John doesn't really like to talk about it.

"So, that's a yes, then?" Sarah asks with that same shy smile.

"Yes, it's a yes," John says, repressing the ridiculous urge to burst into laughter. "Right, yeah. So, um. We should get back to work."

Sarah has a moment of looking like she forgot she was at the surgery. "Oh, right. Good idea."

True to form and in perfect following with how John's luck usually plays out, their last patient turns out to not have a simple cold, but to have a rather advanced case of pneumonia. Which necessitates transporting the poor bloke and his half-panicked wife to the nearest hospital. Which means John and Sarah don't finish until a good forty minutes after they were supposed to.

"The thing is," Sarah says as they stand outside, hands in pockets against the cold. "I didn't think about the fact that I'd be grimy and a bit rank when we were supposed to be getting our drink."

Personally, John thinks Sarah smells like apples and not anything rank. But that's her. "We can reschedule," she suggests.

Sarah frowns slightly, but it's considering and not displeased. "No, how about this. We both pop round to our flats to clean up a bit and then we'll meet at the pub round about nine, yeah?"

John has never seen Sarah freshly clean and damp from the shower. Honestly, she'd never seen Sarah outside of the surgery, wearing her neat work blouses and work slacks and sensible work heels. "Yeah, okay."

Their flats are in opposite directions and Sarah, after a moment's hesitation, kisses John lightly on the cheek before she sets off. Which, dopey as it sounds, is enough to set a nicely charmed and lustful fire burning in the pit of John's stomach for her entire walk to Baker St.

Because God has not entirely forsaken his rather erstwhile daughter, Mrs. Hudson is either out or turned in early, which means John can sneak into the flat without the usual barrage of affectionately nosy questions. Her brass clicks cheerfully in the lock as she lets herself inside, and John almost immediately runs into a wall of odd, awful stink and a faint haze.

"Sherlock?" she yells, waving her hand in front of her face. "Christ almighty. Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

After a moment, there's a mild crash from within the kitchen and Sherlock comes marching out in bare feet, slacks, and tee shirt with a variety of suspect stains growing down the front. She's got goggles pushed in her hair and a test tube of something acid green and vile in one hand.

"What are you doing?" John repeats, holding a hand over her nose at the smell.

"An experiment," Sherlock says, waving her free hand.

"Does it involve dead bodies?"

"Not at this stage."

"Right." John rolls her eyes. She doesn't want to know. She has a date and her only concern is that she doesn't show up for her drink with Sarah smell like whatever unholy thing it is Sherlock's concocted. "Anyway, I'm not here for long."

It takes Sherlock a full twenty minutes to emerge from her chemical haze and process, which gives John just enough time to get in and out of the shower and stare at her wardrobe, hoping an outfit will leap magically out that'll make her look hot and classy. Granted, mostly what she's got are trousers and jeans and jumpers, with the odd button down and a couple old tee shirts stretched out at the neck.

"Come on," John mutters to herself, riffling through. She settles on her favorite pair of trousers, for luck, and a gray shirt that's mostly intact and comes to a nice vee over her tits.

Sherlock barges in just as John is lacing up her shoes. "Where are you going?" Sherlock demands, with her typical bluntness.

John gives her a _look_. One day, by God and all the saints, she will force Sherlock to accept an understanding of the word privacy. "I'm meeting someone for drinks."

"Someone who?"

"Sarah."

"The doctor?"

"None other." John stands and shrugs into her gray coat. It's a bit big and just military enough for John to be aware that she might be gravitating toward subtle reminders of her past. But she likes it and it's warm. And she'd bloody well not going to get preemptively defensive over an imagined judgement from the mythical no one in her head that's dogged her since she got back to England.

Right then. John squares her shoulders and faces Sherlock like a teenager asking her mum for permission to go out on a school night.

Sherlock's leaning against the door frame, arms folded over her chest. John can tell that she's not wearing a bra, as per usual. It's one of her quirks that John can't tell is purposeful or oblivious. "Is it a date?" Sherlock asks, tone unreadable.

A sudden heat flushes into John's cheeks. "Not that it's any of your business, but maybe. Yes. A bit. I am allowed to go on dates."

Sherlock stares.

After a long moment of feeling like a fly beneath one of Sherlock's many microscopes, John decides enough is enough. "Right then, see you later." She charges past Sherlock and does not, _does not_ , leave the flat at a pace that could best be considered a gallop.

It's even colder outside than when she left the surgery, but she walks to the pub anyway. Partially because she's living mostly on a shit army pension and the meagre sum she pulls in at the surgery. But mostly because she still feels flushed and hot and vaguely defensive from Sherlock's gaze and the cold air feels nice and soothing against her cheeks.

The pub is a suitably ratty and dank affair tucked in a row of shops. There's a faded sign hanging over the door with a name nearly rubbed out from wear and weather. John likes it immediately. Oddly, it reminds her of the scuzzy dyke bars she and Harry went to together a few times right after she got back from England, before John realized how bad Harry's drinking was and realized getting smashed probably wasn't a very wise thing.

John pushes in through the heavy front door and immediately zeroes in on Sara leaning against the bar with her hands cupped around a pint. It's daft, but John's mouth dries up at the sight of her.

Of course she knows Sarah is pretty. She works with the woman, after all. Hours and hours at a time a couple days a week. But it's different, seeing her with the spill of dark blond hair falling over her back and shoulders rather than tied away from her face.

Wearing jeans that make her arse look like it's offering invitations to be held on to. John is only a mortal woman, right? She knows when she wants someone.

Quick as she can, John weaves through the tables and growing crowd of patrons on a Friday night and slides up beside Sarah. She's put on a touch of make up; a bit of mascara that makes her eyelashes seem miles long and some color on her beautiful, beautiful lips.

"You're right on time," Sarah says, clearly pleased. She's wearing a bit of a gauzy blouse thing that clings and drapes to inspire the imagination to picture what lays beneath.

"You were early," John rejoins. It's not particularly clever, but Sarah laughs anyway and orders another pint. She steers them to a back booth in the corner, cozy and dimly lit.

It reminds John of two AM snogs in the back seat of a car with a fumbling hand down her knickers. She suspects that might be half the point as Sarah settles in, kicking her feet up on the seat next to John's thigh.

"I realized something as I was waiting," Sarah says.

"What's that?"

She leans back and fixes her sight on John. "I don't know anything about you. I mean, yeah, I read your CV and your records when you applied at the surgery. But I've not heard anything from you personally."

"Oh." John takes a large swallow from her beer. "Er. What do you want to know?"

Sarah chuckles. The dim light casts a lovely gold tinged glow on her face. She looks a dozen times more relaxed than John has ever seen her before. "I don't know, Dr. Watson. Um. Why do you go by John?"

"It's a leftover early expression of homosexuality," John admits, smiling slightly. "You see, my dad wanted boys. And my mom wanted girls. When my elder sister was born, my mum insisted she be named Harriet. Which was a nice ladylike name. And my dad promptly nicknamed her Harry and it stuck. Much to my mum's dismay. When I was born, my mum was wise to my dad's game and insisted I be named Johanna, because Jo was still a suitably girly name."

"And your dad nicknamed you John?" Sarah asks.

"No, he didn't," John admits. "When I was about four or five I decreed that if Harry got a boy's name, then I wanted one too and was henceforth to be called John. My dad did leap on it though. And it stuck. And thus everyone other than my grandmums calls me John. Later my sister and I would both turn out to be of the lez persuasion. And I'm pretty sure my mum still blames the nicknames, in part, for that."

Sarah grins. "That's incredibly charming."

"Thank you."

"Okay." Sarah takes another long swallow of her beer. "What do you want to know?"

John considers. "Why did you become a doctor?"

"I liked guts," Sarah says promptly. "Which I know is the terrible, kind of creepy answer. I'm supposed to say something about wanting to help the world and save the children and all that. But no, I really just thought peoples' insides were very interesting. So it was either medicine or serial murdering. This was vastly more expensive, but much less illegal."

John bursts into laughter at that. She can't help it. And once she's started, Sarah starts giggling and it takes all of a minute for the pair of them to be slumped over the table gasping for air. Even though Sarah's right, it is a bit creepy, but John likes it very much. Noble people make her uncomfortable.

"God, okay," John gasps, pressing a hand to her ribs. "What else. What else do you want to know?"

"Dunno!" Sarah throws up her hands, eyes still glittering with tears of laughter. "I mean, my life is pretty standard. Born, grew up, went to school, went to work. I mean, other than the three days of my dad weeping because he thought I'd never give him grandkids, there's not much to tell. But you, John. You seem like a woman of many unplumbed depths and mysteries."

It's possibly the most bizarrely nice thing anyone has ever said about her. And it's coming from a beautiful woman who asked her out for drinks. Of course, John immediately has to drain the rest of her pint.

"It's not that exciting," she says, a bit soft. She plays her fingers over the rim, edged with foam. "It's mostly the same. Born, grew up. I just was stupid enough to join the army instead of going to work. I was a medic. I got hurt, got discharged, came back here. Then I went to work. It was more of a detour than anything."

Sarah studies John for an impossible span of heartbeats. "You know," she said eventually, kindly. "I don't entirely believe that. But I really don't even care, John Watson. Johanna Watson. I like you."

"I like you," John says, feeling warm in an entirely different place from her face.

So they have a few more and they talk about stupid things and silly things and serious things. By the time one rolls around, they're both warm and loose and a bit tipsy, which is probably a good half of why John doesn't have to think when Sarah says, "God, fuck it. Do you want to come back to my place?"

John pays their tab, because she likes being a bit of a gentleman when she can, but Sarah hails the taxi and directs the driver to her apartment. They sit draped over each other in the back and John only very belatedly thinks about killing a serial killer a few weeks back. _Shit happens_ , she thinks, and has to smother giggles in the curve of Sarah's neck.

Sarah pays the fare and they make it up to her flat leaning on each other, fingers roaming and pressing and teasing. It takes a few tries for Sarah to get her keys in the door as they shush each other; they nearly tumble through when the lock finally gives.

Her flat is dim and John doesn't see much of it as they stumble up the stairs and into the bedroom.

"I want you," Sarah murmurs, kicking the door closed. John notes she is, in fact, not wearing sensible work heels, but a pair of black sexy heels. She wraps her arms around John's neck and tangles her fingers in the chopped short strands of her hair. "I want you so much."

John takes the opportunity to slide her hands over Sarah's arse and, much as she suspected, she very much likes the feel of it.

They kiss for an indeterminate amount of time, long and hungry, until they're both flushed and panting. John's burning beneath her heavy jacket and there are bright spots of color high on Sarah's cheeks. "Clothes," Sarah says distractedly. "We need. Less of them."

If it's not the sexiest undressing John's ever done, it is the most efficient. She shucks off her coat and tosses her shirt aside. Her lucky trousers are still a bit big from the weight she lost in the hospital and they drop over her hips with just a little wiggling.

Sarah's just as quick and turns back to John wearing a bra and matching lacy knickers. She raises an eyebrow. "That's your date underwear?"

John looks down at her sports bra and black briefs. "Would you believe it's been awhile?"

Sarah's laughter carries them stumbling across the room and onto the bed, which is bigger than one person strictly needs. John recognizes the indulgence in it and loves it, cotton sheets curling and bunching beneath her weight as Sarah pushes her down and settles across her hips.

It has been awhile, John really wasn't exaggerating about that. She feels pleasantly warm all up and down her skin. There's a bit of prickling awareness hovering in the back of her mind of the scars on her shoulder from the bullet she took. The only other people who have seen them are doctors and nurses and medical staff. John tried not to care.

"What do you like?" Sarah asks. Her hips pulse a little bit, bearing her arse down on John's pelvis.

John laces their fingers together and pulls Sarah's knuckles to her mouth. Sarah's skin smells clean, like soap, with the heavier musk of alcohol and sweat and the pub. It's a lot of things John likes gathered in the creases of Sarah's skin. "I'm not picky," John says, kissing the back of one hand, then the other. "You're very lovely."

Sarah's grin is embarrassed and pleased. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth and gently eases her hands away. It takes John's brain an embarrassing amount of time to realize she's got her arms twisted round to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. Because Sarah is dexterous both in _and_ outside of the surgery, it only takes a moment. Then the straps of her lacy date bra slide down her arms and she tosses it away.

"Christ," John murmurs. She lightly touches her hands to Sarah's waist and traces a line upward, cupping Sarah's tits in her palm.

Sarah has _very nice_ tits. Which, John hasn't seen an inordinate amount of naked girls in her time, at least not in a sexual context. Doctoring doesn't count. But she's seen a fair few. With her clothes off, Sarah looks soft and made of gentle curves. John circles her thumbs over Sarah's nipples and savors the way they harden and the little, "oh" sound she makes.

In the military, John got a touch of combat training to go along with her medical skill, and she decides to use it. It's a bit awkward and not the most graceful thing she's ever done, but John managed to level Sarah bouncing to the other side of the mattress and trade places, so she's sat between Sarah's legs with Sarah sprawled on the mattress.

"Like being on top, do we?" Sarah teases, stretching her arms over her head.

John grins. She figures tit for tat, or tits for tits as it might be, is the best way to go. She catches her fingers in the spandex of her bra and shimmies it off. Her tits are a bit bigger than Sarah's and the weight of them makes her shift and blush. She's not used to be naked in front of other people.

But Sarah just makes a pleased noise in the back of her throat. "Oh, yes," she murmurs, kneading her fingers into John's thighs. "You are beautiful."

Compliments have never sat all that comfortably with John, so she doesn't respond.

A glance around the room reveals a bit more about Sarah; she has prints of flowers on the walls and a knitted blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. There's a stand beside the bed with a drawer open a few inches. Which gives John an inkling.

"What's in there?" she asks, jutting her chin toward the drawer.

Sarah grins wide and mischievous, even as patches of red flood into her cheeks. "What do you think? A girl has needs and there's not always mysterious doctors around to lend a hand."

John smirks. She thought as much.

With just a touch of awkward maneuvering that leaves her stretched over Sarah's thigh, John gets her hand into the drawer and closes around a bit of long, hard plastic. With a bit of groping, she finds a button on the end and flicks it. The room fills the buzzing sound of plastic vibrating against the drawer.

John flicks it off and shimmies back to the bottom of the bed. She settles comfortably between Sarah's legs with the vibe held loosely in one hand. The plastic is smooth and bright blue and a bit bigger than John would have thought for Sarah. "This is clean, right?"

"Of course," Sarah nods. She suddenly sounds a touch breathless.

"Oh, good," John says, then turns it on to the lowest setting.

It's not anywhere near Sarah's lacy knickers. John touches the very tip to Sarah's knees and gets a full body shudder in return, Sarah's toes curling in the sheets. John lifts the vibe away and kisses the same spot, taking the time to suck a nice, bright red hickey into Sarah's skin.

"However am I going to explain that?" Sarah asks, breathless.

"However you want."

John turns the vibe up the next setting and traces a slow, steady path up the inside of Sarah's thigh until she reaches the edge of her knickers. Sarah lifts her hips off the bed and makes a high, desperate little mewling sound. John follows the edge of her knickers, finding the seam that goes right across her cunt.

"Oh, fucking hell," Sarah exhales. "Fuck."

"Like that?" John asks, pleased. She hunkers down between Sarah's thighs, mindful of her bum shoulder, and nudges her nose against the lace of Sarah's knickers. They're damp with want; John inhales the scent and exhales long and slow and warm. Sarah makes another noise and one hand suddenly tangles tight in John's cropped hair.

Suddenly, John wishes she'd gotten rid of the knickers when it would have less awkward, but doesn't dwell. She can fell the hot, pulsing kick of desire in her own cunt and it makes her want to do everything to this woman shaking beneath her. She securely settles the buzzing vibe in a bit of smushed up blanket and uses a pair of fingers to hook on the crotch of Sarah's knickers and pull them aside.

Her pubic hair is a darker brown than her hair and neatly, precisely trimmed back. John licks her tongue along the line of Sarah's cunt. Her flesh parts easily.

It's been awhile since John's done this, too, and she never racked up that much practice to begin with. But she remembers Harry once telling her that inexperience could _easily_ be made up for with enthusiasm and John has that in abundance.

She takes her time, laving broad, wet paths along Sarah's cunt. She finds the little swollen knob of her clit and takes an experiment suck, for which she gets a violent yank on her hair and Sarah practically shouting, hips pushing up to meet John's mouth. "Please, please," Sarah chants.

John puts everything she has into it, pushing the tip of her tongue just a bit inside Sarah, laving her clit until Sarah's words stop making sense. John can't smell or taste anything other than Sarah and she bloody loves it.

When Sarah's turned to quivering goo and John feels like her jaw is going to fall off, she gropes in the sheets and manages to lay her hand on the blue plastic vibe. John sits back on her heels, cranks it up, and rubs the vibe against Sarah's clit.

It's a bit like what John pictures electricity doing to the human body. Sarah's shoulders and hips jerk up and her back arches like someone pulled it tight. She rides out orgasm with her eyes slammed shut and her fingers flexing in the air like she's searching for something to hold on to.

Only when her cries take on an edge of, "too much" that sounds a bit like pain does John pulls the vibe away and flick it off. She crawls up the bed and settles alongside Sarah, grinning when Sarah instinctively curls toward her and claims a sloppy, jerking kiss.

"Christ, John," Sarah says. "You're a bloody tease."

Which is not something anyone has ever said about John, but she'll take it. "Seemed like you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh." Sarah laughs. "I did, trust me. Christ."

For a moment, they lay together in a mess of limbs. Sarah's warm and heavy and lovely. John hasn't gotten very many post-coital moments that were meant to be savored with someone else and she quite likes it. She lazily curls a lock of Sarah's hair around her finger and nuzzles into her neck.

After a moment, she feels Sarah's inquisitive hand drift downward and press against the cotton of John's knickers. John inhales sharply. "You don't have to," she mutters. "I don't expect anything."

"Shut up," Sarah murmurs fondly. She slides her hand up until her fingers can ease under the elastic and press against John's flesh.

John muscles tighten from head to toe as Sarah's palm grind a slow rhythm against her cunt. She takes her time, chuckling at the wetness she finds. "You really like getting other people off, don't you?" she asks, but John can't so much as answer.

Sarah slips a finger in only when John's hips start to move in short little jerks. She isn't coy about it, or teasing; one moment it's the blunt, pervasive warmth of her palm, then two fingers push into John and John gasps, squeezing her eyes shut.

A thumb then, pushing against her clit in rhythm with the fingers inside her. And with that, it doesn't long for a slow, mellow orgasm to pulse through her; Sarah's fingers urging her on as she rides out the waves of it, to the appreciative murmurs of Sarah's low voice.

Then Sarah pulls her hand out and sucks her fingers into her mouth, which John can't think about or she will quite literally explode into a pool of well-sexed goo in Sarah's bed. Which seems a bit impolite.

"That was amazing," Sarah declares, tossing the rumpled sheet over top of them.

"Yeah," John manages to agree, curling close. "Jesus, yeah."

Falling asleep is totally and entirely accidental, but when John wakes up, she's less embarrassed that she would have thought. She finds Sarah already out of bed and making tea in a robe with her hair piled on top of her head in the kitchen. She's humming tunelessly and turns when she hears John enter.

John's trousers and shirt feel a bit grubby against her skin, but she feels decently close to fantastic. "Morning," she yawns.

Sarah hands her a cup, with a shy, flirting kiss on her cheek. "Good morning. I have to be at the surgery in half an hour, so please don't think I'm trying to shove you out the door."

John wouldn't have thought that, but she appreciates the sentiment.

They have tea and toast, then Sarah vanishes to the bathroom and emerges ten minutes later dripping wet. John thinks about following her back into the bedroom, but that'd probably make Sarah late and John doesn't want to do that. So, regretfully, she watches the news at the kitchen table while Sarah's cat twines between her legs.

John insists on sharing a cab, even though there's a chance someone at the surgery might seem them together when Sarah gets out. She simply does not care.

"So, is this something you might want to do again?" Sarah asks lightly as they sit in the back; close, but not too close.

"If you want," John says mildly. "I mean, I'd like it."

"Me too!" Sarah says a bit quickly and they both grin. "Right. Good."

There's no kiss when Sarah climbs out, but there is a moment when Sarah's hand lands on her wrists and they look at each other. Sarah is so lovely, so stupidly lovely. John hasn't felt this lucky in a long time and she rides that wave all the way back to the flat.

Mrs. Hudson is awake, but John manages to get her key turned in the lock and slip inside before she can get to the door of her flat and poke her head out. There are certain things John has no desire to discuss with her matronly landlady and why she's coming home at eight in the morning with her knickers in the pocket of her coat is one of them.

Sherlock's awake, reading in her chair with her legs crossed. She doesn't look up when John walks in. She _pointedly_ doesn't look up. John sheds her jacket and tosses it over the back of her chair. "How was your night?"

"Fine." Sherlock's eyes keep moving over the page. "I presume yours was as well."

John slides into her chair and stretches. "Something like that. I was figuring you'd text after awhile."

That gets Sherlock to shoot John one of those You're-An-Idiot looks over the top of her book. "I did."

"No, you—" John fishes in her pocket for her mobile and finds a blank screen. "Oh, oops."

"Oops," Sherlock echoes blandly.

"Was it anything important?"

Sherlock doesn't bother justifying that with a response.

On any other day John would feel at least a bit bad. A lot of the meaning in her life comes from Sherlock allowing her to tag along on her cases. And Sherlock made sure she has a flat and could stay in London. But she doesn't put her hands into John's knickers and, as Sarah said, a woman has needs.

"Right," John says, pushing herself up. "I'm going to take a nap."

She'll deal with Sherlock later. And she's going to call Sarah tonight.


End file.
